A Psychic, a Hunter, & a Werewolf Walk Into a Bar
by windscryer
Summary: Shawn was just minding his business and playing some pool when his life took a sharp turn South. And he's not talking Georgia here. But at least it's good company. Pre-Series crossover with Supernatural. Gen. PYO ASR 1.
1. The Set Up

Rated for language. Because Dean is SUCH a bad influence!

Disclaimer: I have copies of the DVDs and rumor has it I have the boys in question living in my closet, but I am making no money from this and I'm not in charge of writing or making either show or THIS WOULD SO BE CANON. :D

For reference purposes, this takes places just prior to the SPN pilot and about a year before the Psych pilot. No major timeline shifts have been made to accommodate these two universes as I think they mesh rather well on their own. :D

Part of the _Psych You Out (A Supernatural Remix)_ crossover 'verse in which there will be further adventures of fake supernatural meeting the real deal. :D

Inspired and betaed by the incomparable MusicalLuna. I just wanted to write about a cat. She demanded banter and blood. :D

* * *

Dean tipped his bottle up and watched his target.

His eyes momentarily strayed to the waitress bringing another round to the distant table, but, sadly, he couldn't linger.

Well, maybe for a moment.

But then he had to go back to watching one Virgil Westinghouse the Third.

A very prestigious name for someone who lived in East Bumfuck, Iowa.

But maybe that was why his parents had moved here. Because they had names and money and no one looks too closely at people who have names and money and are willing to use both to help the town grow.

Unfortunately for poor Virgil, his senior year of college was not going so well. In fact, he'd had to stop attending school and finish via correspondence courses because he was just so traumatized by all the killings going on at his school.

Dean snorted. Yeah. It was probably very traumatic indeed to turn into a serial killer virtually overnight.

Virtually and literally, actually.

Because Virgil Westinghouse the Third had met a pretty coed at a frat party on Greek Row one night. They'd talked and flirted and, well, he was richer than hell so when the pretty coed had invited him back to her place, he'd, of course, assumed that it had everything to do with his good looks and charming wit and nothing to do with his money.

Yeah, Dean thought, watching Virgil show off his 'skills' at the pool table. Right. Good looks and charming wit. Or something like that.

And, honestly, that could have been it. Dean had no way of knowing because he hadn't exactly stopped to ask before he plunged the silver knife into that pretty coed's chest and sent her wolfy soul to hell.

But whatever her reasoning, she hadn't stolen Virgil's heart that night —literally—as might be expected by one of her kind. Instead she'd turned him.

And he'd dumped her. No surprise there. Who wants a girlfriend who thinks a fun date is committing a double homicide with fresh human heart for dessert?

And then, after things got a little warm at school with two active werewolves hunting prey and drawing attention, he'd come running home to Mommy and Daddy and their big safe house with their big full bank accounts.

Dean had a feeling that Mommy and Daddy had accounted for that first month's need to feed, since they were last seen by someone besides Virgil a week after he arrived home, which happened to also be the day before the full moon. And the killings didn't start until the second full moon after he came back, so yeah, it was a pretty sure bet that Virgil Westinghouse the Third had taken care of his inheritance.

Oddly enough, one month _to the day_ after one could say the Westinghouses vanished there was another disappearance. But it was a guest at a local motel and his stuff had been gone too, so he might have just checked out.

Except for the fact that he never reached his destination and he was never seen again at any hotels—or even gas stations or restaurants—within a day's journey by car. Local police weren't really concerned because there was no proof anything had happened to him here.

And they said the exact same thing about the other seven people who had stayed here in Whatever-The-Hell-This-Place-Was-Called, Iowa, and vanished without a trace.

The police didn't consider it a case.

Dean did. More importantly, John Winchester had. But not one that he felt required both of the Winchester men to take care of, so he'd sent Dean here and headed off after a poltergeist in Georgia.

Dean had spent a few days tracking Virgil's schedule and finding out more about the illustrious Westinghouse family scion.

And tonight, being the full moon, was the last night Dean planned on staying here. He just had to follow Virgil when he left the bar—hopefully alone—and then one silver bullet to the heart and some salt and gasoline later he'd be in bed—maybe meet up with one of the waitresses before getting to the bed part, depending on how the timing all worked out—and on his way to New Orleans to meet up with his Dad in the morning.

But he had to wait for Virgil to leave the bar first.

So he sat and waited and flirted with the waitresses and pretended to nurse an endless bottle of beer because even if he could hold his liquor with the best of them, drinking and hunting didn't mix.

Hustling pool, though . . . that could mix with hunting. He had enough money to get to the next night's stay between here and the Big Easy, but having extra never hurt. Especially when there was no guarantee of a good pool game in the next town.

And it was less suspicious than hanging out in a bar and pretending to drink from a bottle that never needed a replacement.

So he left his seat and headed over to the pool tables, sizing up the competition.

Virgil and his friends were all crowded around a table, though the friends were all just spectators. Money lay in a tidy pile on one side, the balls were scattered over the table, and a shot was currently being measured by someone not of Virgil's social group.

Early to mid-twenties, short hair in a messy kind of style, sharp hazel eyes that judged the table and looked for the best angle to make his shot, clothes that weren't ragged—but that had definitely been through the wash a few times.

Probably a local who was just unwinding after a day working his boring blue collar job.

Dean arched a brow as the cue ball bounced off the side twice before hitting the eight and sinking it into the side pocket on top of which the money was perched.

So he was a local blue collar guy who played one helluva game of pool. Half of Virgil's stripes were still on the table.

Virgil frowned, but the guy smiled easily.

"Good game," he said and folded the wad of cash into his wallet.

"I want a rematch."

The guy looked up into Virgil's stony expression and his eyebrows rose. "Ah, no, thanks. I think I'm going to have a drink or two. Maybe try my luck again with Ashley over there." He grinned at one of the waitresses and Dean stifled a snort. He hadn't had any luck with her. This guy wasn't likely to do so either. Unless Ashley preferred locals. "But I'm done with pool for the night. Thanks for the game, though." He smiled again and turned to walk away, stopping when he came face to face with Dean.

"Are you sure you don't want one more game?" Dean asked, all friendly fellow barfly. "I'm not half as good as those guys, but I'll never learn if I don't play against people who know how to use a cue." He probably should have chosen Virgil because he obviously sucked at pool but Dean was feeling the need for the challenge. Besides, this guy probably had all of the cash Virgil had brought with him tucked his wallet.

The other guy looked Dean up and down, opened his mouth to refuse, then shrugged, half smiling. "Yeah, okay. One game." He held out a hand. "I'm Shawn, by the way."

"Dean."

Shawn nodded and then moved to rack the balls. He cast a glance or two at where Virgil was conferring with his friends in whispers, but didn't seem too nervous.

Which either meant he was a world class poker player, a champion barroom brawler, or dumb as shit.

Dean had even odds on all three at this point.

Dean took the first shot and then settled in to hustle himself up some more gas money for his baby.

o.o

Four games later and Shawn was circling the table looking for a good angle.

Dean was scowling at the table like it had betrayed him.

And it kind of had. But mostly the blame lay on Shawn's friendly shoulders. Because Dean had tried his best to hustle him and had only realized in the last three shots that he was the one being hustled.

Dammit all to hell. If not for his policy of never betting his last hundred dollars he'd be screwed seven ways from Sunday. Because it was probably going to be just enough to get him down the road and into another bar where he could try and get some more.

He just hoped he'd have better luck there.

He'd been right the first time and probably should have left it at his observation. Because Shawn was one _hell_ of a pool player. And from that butter-wouldn't-melt-in-his-mouth-innocent face he'd been sporting the last two rounds, probably a damn fine poker player too.

They guy probably made bank in Vegas. If he was even allowed in the casinos anymore.

The eight ball sank into the corner pocket with a thunk and Dean smothered a sigh. Forget trying to find a girl to spend the night with. He was shooting a werewolf and hitting the sack and putting this town in his rearview mirror come dawn. He glanced at his watch. Well, maybe nine or ten.

Speaking of Virgil . . . He looked around.

And spotted the guy in a corner booth with his friends and a few girls, though Virgil wasn't thinking about all those nice curves practically sitting in his lap. His eyes were locked on a target, dark and brooding, and when Dean followed them he found the target was none other than his pool buddy, Shawn.

Oh perfect.

Dean sighed. Well, that was one way to bait a trap. Unintentional, but effective.

Shawn was scooping up the money. "You know, you're not half bad," he said, but the smirk conveyed the fact that he knew exactly what had been going on.

"Neither are you," Dean said with a soft laugh.

"Well, I, uh, I think I really am done for the night. Poolwise anyway. So, uh, later."

Shawn headed off to the bar, flashing a grin at Ashley and Dean watched him go, silently wishing the bastard luck.

Someone ought to get lucky tonight and it looked like the streak was Shawn's.

Dean would have happily called it a night at that point, but he still had work to do and, since he was currently trying to kill Shawn with the lasers in his eyes, Virgil didn't appear to be getting ready to leave any time soon.

So Dean found an empty booth where he could keep both Shawn and Virgil in his sights and settled in for a long night of waiting.

* * *

Review, please and thank you!


	2. The Build Up

This chapter (and the speed with which it was posted) is dedicated to GB, who I would swear at times sits around just _waiting_ for me to post. Put a little something special in here just for you, babe. ;D

Also, beware, for drunk!Shawn has a tendency to wander into gutter type areas. :D

* * *

Shawn left the bar feeling pretty good about the night.

He didn't, as a rule, hustle pool for money, but it had been a few days since his last gainful employment and he needed gas or he'd be stuck here. And here was not where he wanted to spend any more than a day or so.

So he'd played a few friendly games with a few guys, sort of accidentally ended up in a game with a hustler, and, as an alternative to losing, outhustled him. It had been . . . refreshing.

He hadn't had a challenge like that since Gus' last birthday present.

Oooh, speaking of which. He needed to mail another postcard or Gus was going to call the FBI and report him missing again. He'd do that tomorrow though.

He'd been shot down by Ashley the bartender, but that was okay because while he wouldn't have minded some feminine company, he wasn't dying for it either.

And right now he was focused on walking in a straight enough line to not end up in jail or the street. He hadn't had _too_ much to drink, but he'd had enough to mellow him and make walking just a _little_ harder. He only had another block . . . maybe two . . . and he'd be back at home, sweet . . . well, crappy motel actually. But it wasn't a park bench again so he'd call it good.

He turned the corner onto the street that ended at his motel and, feeling the inexplicable urge to whistle and unable to think of a reason not to, began adding a soundtrack to his evening. Though why in the world he had Kansas in his head he might never know. Ah well.

His slightly off key rendition of _Carry On Wayward Son_ was interrupted about the time he passed what this town laughingly called a public park.

Not that it wasn't a sort of public place with plants and things, but didn't parks have, like, toys for the kids? There were no toys here and that was just sad. Where did the kids go to- Ooooh. There it was again!

Shawn stopped and blinked at the trees. Awfully thick trees for a park. Maybe the kids played on the trees? Okay, that might actually make this park cooler than most. Because for some reason they were taking the fun trees out of parks.

He'd always had so much fun climbing trees—when his Dad wasn't around to spoil it—but it seemed like more and more they were taking the trees away because they were dangerous or something.

Like the whole freaking world was channeling his father.

He snorted. Trees weren't dangerous. Fathers who wouldn't listen were dangerous.

Also, dogs.

Especially ones without leashes.

Left in the park late at night.

To growl at random passers-by.

"Nice doggie," Shawn whispered. "Good boy." What was that saying? Diplomacy was saying 'nice doggie' until you found a rock? Well he had the first part down. Now to . . .

Crap.

Why weren't there any rocks in the street? What kind of neat-freak town didn't leave rocks in the street so you could defend yourself from the crazy dogs in the park?

Man, he was _so_ leaving this town come daylight. Or noon. Whichever he was conscious for first.

And then came a new sound. A sort of click. Like, say, the safety of a gun being switched off.

And Shawn _really_ began to hate this place. Because the crappy parks and crazy dogs weren't enough. Oh no. Now he was going to be mugged.

Seriously. What. The. Hell?

He started to turn so he could keep both crazy dog growl and the mugger in his frontal sort of area—he couldn't keep them in line of sight because, well, he hadn't actually _seen_ the dog yet, but whatever.

And then he realized that he _recognized_ the mugger. It was none other than his hustling pool buddy.

Dammit. He'd seemed like a nice guy.

Shawn sighed. He'd have to try again tomorrow night to get some more cash. Wouldn't be easy with what he'd done tonight, but it was that or walk his bike to the next town. Not how he wanted to spend tomorrow. He had plans to be in Pennsylvania for the weekend. A town with a candy factory that had tours was calling his name . . .

"Look, I wasn't trying to hustle you," he explained as he slowly reached for his wallet. "I was just playing an honest game of pool and then you tried to hustle me and-"

"SHHH."

Shawn lifted his hands. Okay. Guy didn't want to talk. Understandable.

But Shawn wasn't always good at doing what other people wanted. Mostly he sucked at it, to be honest. And when he was . . . just this side of inebriated he _really_ sucked at it.

"Look, I'm not gonna fight you," Shawn said.

That got a snort from mugger dude.

Shawn frowned. Okay, he wasn't totally sober, but he wasn't _that_ drunk. If he wanted to fight he could. But right now he was tired and wanted to get away from the crazy dog and he really had to pee.

So he wasn't going to fight. But if he _did_ want to, he'd so win.

"Look, just take the money and-"

"I don't want your freaking money," mugger guy hissed.

What was his name? Shawn was good with names. It was something with a 'D' . . . Derek? No. Damon? No. Delia? Shawn laughed. No.

Dean! That was it! "Dean, I really- wait . . ." Shawn's brain was just catching up. Damn booze. Slowed everything down. "You don't want my money?" he asked. "What the hell kind of mugger are you?"

Okay that came out kind of indignant. Like Shawn was offended that he wasn't going to be giving away his money. And he wasn't. Offended, that is.

But seriously, what kind of crappy mugger didn't want money?

Dean rolled his eyes, but didn't lower his gun.

"I'm not mugging you, jackass," he said shortly. "I'm trying to- DUCK."

Shawn blinked. _Trying_ to duck? How much beer had Dean _had_ if he couldn't tell the difference between ducking and mugging someone?

And then Shawn was tackled to the ground by Dean.

Well he was getting closer anyway. But ducking was not a group activity. It was a solo thing. Shawn opened his mouth to explain this when a gun went off very very close to Shawn's head and, really, it was kind of unexpected, so the tiny squeak of terror it shook loose was totally not his fault.

"What the hell?"

Shawn opened his eyes, but instead of Dean looking at the crazy dog or whatever, he was looking at Shawn.

"You're the one who can't duck," Shawn said. "This is so not my fault."

Dean just stared at him for a very long moment, then shook his head and climbed to his feet.

"Look, do you think you can get back home by yourself or do I need to call you a . . . someone to come get you."

Obviously Dean had figured out what Shawn had.

This podunk town was too small for a taxi service.

Shawn snorted. "You think _I'm_ drunk?" he demanded. "You're the one who can't mug someone _or_ duck and you think _I'm_ drunk?"

Dean growled in frustration and looked skyward. "Oh. My. Fucking-"

And that's when Shawn screamed.

And really, even though he might have had a few more beers than was smart, he'd also had to deal with a crazy dog and an even crazier human and he _still_ had to pee and now some sort of horror movie reject had just crawled out of the bushes and was eying Dean like he was a side of prime rib with Shawn playing the part of the loaded baked potato and really that was the final straw in this insane evening and so Shawn should really be excused for screaming in a higher pitch than can be considered manly.

Luckily for them both, Dean had some hella good reflexes even when drunk.

He took one look at Shawn's face and spun around and brought the gun up and fired in a move so smooth Shawn was beginning to wonder if he'd passed out and was now dreaming he was on a movie stage.

Because, seriously, that was a totally awesome ninja move there.

And it had to involve, like, strings, or CGI or something.

Because DAMN.

The other reason Shawn suspected it was a movie was because the gun obviously had blanks in it.

I mean, who can do a totally badass ninja move like that and then _miss_ the huge creature thingy standing like four feet away?

Shawn could have hit it and he was . . . not entirely sober.

And then Dean did something that clinched the whole 'movie' thing.

He ran straight at the monster and tackled it.

Like, to the ground. With a guttural war-cry and everything.

Who the hell would do that in real life? No one. So this was obviously some sort of movie dream he was having.

Cool.

And hey, if it was a dream he couldn't get hurt. So why the hell not join in? With his own battle cry—which might have, again, been higher than is strictly manly, but, whatever, it's HIS dream—he ran and leapt into the fray.

And was promptly thrown back out of it by the big hairy guy thing.

Ow.

Tree, meet head. Head, meet tree. Tree specializes in giving concussions. What industry are you in, Head?

Shawn winced but dragged himself back to his feet. And promptly fell down again, all of his earlier boozing and not-really-eating-mostly-light-snacking coming back to haunt him.

Oh yeah, definitely concussion.

Except . . . He frowned. How did one get a concussion in a dream? Man. This was turning into a lame-ass dream.

And then he spotted something shiny.

Oooooh. Shiiiny.

He reached forward and picked it up and blinked as the two hands holding two guns merged into one.

Well that was a neat trick. And so more proof this was a dream. But, he decided with a shrug, it meant he could be the hero.

He grinned and straightened, paused briefly to think about standing up, decided he didn't want to fall down again, and raised his arm.

"DEAN! DUCK!"

He waited, knowing Dean would need a little more time to figure out how to do that, then aimed at the big ugly creature thing and fired.

Wow. Blanks still had one hell of a kick.

There was a sort of yelpish sound, then the big hairy thing fell over.

Dean—who had done _much_ better at ducking this time—raised his head from where he was crouched down next to the thing.

"What the _fuck_?"

Which was kind of rude considering Shawn had just saved his life, but, well, he could totally understand the sentiment. Because he was beginning to think that his head hurt way too much for this to be a dream.

Dean looked at the hairy thing, then at Shawn, then back at the hairy thing. He nudged it with the toe of his boot, then grunted. "Damn. It's dead."

Shawn blinked, then again for good measure.

Wait . . . _WHAT_?

Dean chuckled and wiped a hand over his mouth, then came over. "That is either the luckiest thing I have ever seen or the FUCKING _STUPIDEST_ THING I HAVE EVER SEEN." He looked kind of angry and, well, since he had tackled the big hairy thing and Shawn had killed it, that was, again, understandable. But this was Shawn's dream so he totally got dibs on being the hero.

"Please don't yell," Shawn said, squinting with the flash of pain that rattled through his skull. Sheesh. Couldn't even get any respect in his own head.

Dean's eyebrows rose. "Excuse me?"

Shawn winced. "I hit a tree. With my head. Now it hurts. And loud really hurts. Not a difficult concept, dude."

Dean stared at him some more and Shawn decided that this was an excellent time to lay down and let himself go so he could wake up. It must be morning and the headache was from the hangover. Although he'd never had one sneak into a dream before . . .

"Oh no," Dean said. "No going to sleep. You've obviously got a concussion and I did not save your ass so you could die in the park. Now sit up and open your eyes."

Shawn mumbled something about going away or doing something else.

Dean's indignant voice came from further away. Sort of higher-up-ish. "Did you just tell me to grow a set of boobs?"

Shawn frowned and forced his eyes open at that. Had he? Maybe. But it was his dream so why the hell not?

If he wasn't going to wake up, he wanted to dream something more fun than almost being killed. Or at the very least he wanted to dream about almost being killed with Angelina Jolie.

A smile curved his lips. Hell yes. Now _that_ was a dream worth having.

A disgusted sigh told Shawn that Angelina had not replaced Dean. And really, this was starting to concern Shawn. Because he did _NOT_ bat for that team.

Nuh uh.

He was all about the boobs.

And the hips.

And the legs.

And other various and sundry NOT GUY parts.

But apparently his subconscious wasn't so sure.

Because Angelina didn't show up and Dean grabbed his shirt and began dragging him along the grass.

He forced his eyes open, dug in his heels, gripped the wrists that had his shirt and said—as clearly as he was possibly capable of doing so—"Let me go."

"Shut up. Your virtue is safe," Dean informed him. "But I need to drag this fugly's ass into the park to light it on fire and I don't want you getting hit by a car or anything." He added in a mutter, "Although it might be in everyone's best interests if it _did_ happen."

Shawn blinked—again dammit. Why couldn't things stay not fuzzy?—and then started trying to regain his feet.

"You're going to what the who where?"

Dean sighed—also again. Did he have a breathing problem or something?—and said, "Shawn, right?"

Shawn nodded.

"I have to go get the werewolf's carcass-" At this he pointed to the big hairy thing. "-And drag it into the park-" He pointed to the shadows and trees. "-And light it on fire. Or it will not be dead and gone. Do you understand?"

Shawn scowled. "I'm not five, dude."

Dean snorted. "Yeah, well, prove it."

At that he left Shawn propped against the tree and headed back to the . . . wait. Did he say _werewolf_? Seriously?

Dean grabbed it by a leg and started pulling it up onto the grass and towards Shawn.

Shawn blinked and watched as it drew closer, eyes locked on the . . . corpse.

Oh hell.

Oh fuck.

Oh fucking hell.

It was.

It was a . . . well, it wasn't human.

And since it was hairy and had sharp teeth and growled, calling it a 'werewolf' was as good a name as any for it.

And Shawn had killed it.

Shawn doubled over, stomach so disgusted by the idea of killing a werewolf that it was apparently committing mutiny and trying to jump ship.

There was a curse and a thump and then a hand with a rough palm was on his arm holding him up—which was awesome, because face down in a pile of puke was never a good thing—and a voice telling him to breathe.

Which seemed like a decent enough idea so Shawn gave it a whirl. Huh. The voice was right. Breathing was good.

"Easy there, buddy," the voice said again. "Man, what a waste of perfectly good alcohol."

Maybe, Shawn thought. But if this was what came of drinking he was _never_ touching the stuff again.

Finally he was able to push himself back up to a semi-upright—if totally leaning on the tree—position and he looked at Dean.

"This isn't some fucked up, hangover-induced nightmare is it?"

Dean half smiled. "Sorry. No."

Shawn nodded. "Okay then."

He wiped a hand over his face and then blinked some more because, why the hell not?

And then he looked down at the werewolf again.

Fugly didn't even begin to describe it.

"Are you going to be okay? Because, really, I need to get rid of this thing. Preferably _before_ someone realizes that was a gunshot and calls the cops."

Shawn glanced at him, then nodded. "Uh, yeah. I think so. You know . . . Maybe."

Dean didn't look remotely convinced.

"Uh huh."

He gave Shawn an assessing look, then grabbed his wrist and drew his arm up over his shoulder.

"Whoa, wait a second there."

Dean's eyes made another circuit in their sockets. "For the last fucking time, I am NOT going to do anything to you. Except get you back to wherever you live and leave you for someone else to deal with. Holy _shit,_ you're a paranoid drunk."

Shawn half smiled. "I didn't think you were. I mean, really, this would be an odd way for my subconscious to inform me that I was gay—even for me." Dean gave him an odd look, but, come on, wasn't that kind of a pot-kettle-black thing? Especially considering there was a _werewolf_ at their feet?

"I was just going to say that I could help you take care of . . . Furry here. It seems kind of important to you to do it sooner rather than later and-"

Dean shook his head. "I'm fine, dude. It'll keep for a few more minutes. As long as we're not here to loiter suspiciously anyway. So where to?"

Shawn shook his head—and, okay, REALLY bad idea—and freed his arm. After Dean helped steady him again he cautiously bent down and grabbed a leg.

Ew, by the way. Just . . . _ew_.

A snort that might have been amused or possibly resigned was exhaled above and then Dean was leaning down grabbing the other leg.

"Let's get this barbecue going."

o.o

It took ten minutes to drag the carcass deep enough into the woods that Dean was satisfied—and really what the hell kind of park was this anyway? The Hundred Acre Woods? It was huge! And full of nothing but TREES!—and then another ten for him to prepare a site to burn the corpse without setting anything else on fire.

Shawn passed that time sitting on a log and wondering how he'd missed the signpost saying he'd entered the Twilight Zone. And trading questions with his new friend, Dean the Werewolf Slayer. Who was way less hot than Buffy, but still cool.

"Favorite band of the 1980's."

Dean snorted. "Like there's a contest? Metallica, of course."

Shawn's nose wrinkled. "Classic rock fan, huh?"

Dean was sprinkling some kind of white powdery substance over the corpse, but he glanced at Shawn. "How can you be a child of the eighties and _not_ be a classic rock fan?"

Shawn snorted now. "Because I have taste?"

"Bad taste, maybe," Dean muttered as he capped the can of . . . whatever it was. Although Shawn was beginning to wonder about the whole 'barbecue' comment from before. He wasn't seriously going to-

"Let me guess, you like Michael Jackson and Rick Astley?"

"Michael, yes. Rick . . . Well not _all_ of his songs were bad."

"Yeah okay. If you say so."

A liquid that Shawn's nose identified as gasoline was liberally poured over the corpse. Shawn took that as a hopeful sign that there really wasn't going to be any barbecuing in the literal sense of the word.

"Geeze, pyro. Use enough accelerant there?"

Dean grinned. "Never can use too much gasoline. Makes such a pretty sound when it ignites in large quantities."

Shawn chuckled. "If you say so. I was always told _not_ to play with matches."

"Yeah, but did you listen?"

Shawn tilted his head. "Fair point."

Dean pulled a book of matches out and then held it out to Shawn. "You want to do the honors?"

Shawn looked back in surprise. "Wait, seriously? Pyro boy is willing to share his matches?"

Dean shrugged. "If you don't want to I understand, but you made the kill shot. House rules."

Shawn shook his head. "What the hell kind of house did you grow up in?"

But he was making his way to his feet, the cool night air, the exertion of dragging the body, and the general adrenaline-pumping activities all contributing to making him much less drunk than when he'd started whistling just a short time ago.

He managed the ten feet to the pyre and accepted the matches, tearing off one and striking it on the back. "Booyah," he quietly cheered and tossed it in.

Then almost fell on his ass when the flames rushed up at him with a _FWOOMP_, nearly singeing his eyebrows.

Dean caught him with a laugh and steadied him. "Okay, maybe there is such a thing as too much accelerant."

Shawn laughed and shook his head. "Nah. That was a pretty cool sound when it went up."

"It was, wasn't it?"

Dean gently urged Shawn back to the log and pushed his shoulder until he sat. Then he inhaled deeply and with satisfaction.

"Ahhh. Nothing like the smell of werewolf roasting in the moonlight."

Shawn, feeling much more comfortable after the time spent with Dean—and after some of the topics of discussion quite secure in the knowledge that Dean like girls just as much as the next red-blooded American male—teased, "You have an odd sense of romantic, Dean Winchester." He batted his eyes and grinned.

Dean, now much more accustomed to Shawn's sense of humor which was refreshingly similar to his, replied with a wink and a saucy, "Oh Shawn, just wait until the second date."

The two laughed together as the smoke from their impromptu bonfire rose into the night.

* * *

Review, please and thanks! 


	3. The Punchline

Another chappie YAYZ! BOOBOO TENDING TIME!

* * *

Dean only gave an ironic chuckle and a small shake of his head when he found out that Shawn was staying at the same motel as he was.

His laughter was a little more loud and amused when he found out that they were next door neighbors.

But since he was pretty sure he had the better first aid kit he steered their stumbling steps towards his own door.

"Not on the first date," Shawn said wearily when he realized he was at the wrong door. His words were a little more slurred now, but that had nothing to do with alcohol and everything to do with the adrenaline wearing off.

Dean gave a half-hearted chuckle and said, "For the very last time, Spencer, I'm not your type. And you're not mine," he added when his own weary brain realized how that sounded.

"You can't resist my charm," Shawn mumbled. "None of the girls can."

Dean gave him a glare as he dropped him unceremoniously on the bed nearest the bathroom.

"You keep talking like that and I won't give you drugs."

Shawn's eyes popped open. "You have drugs?" His arms came up and his fingers wiggled. "Gimme."

"Nope," Dean said, getting a washcloth from the bathroom and wetting it. "Have to make sure you're not bleeding anywhere first."

Shawn huffed a resentful sigh. "Jerk."

"Bitch," Dean responded, then froze.

But Shawn didn't think anything of it and just pushed himself up, wincing as he probed the back of his head.

Dean gratefully took the reprieve offered and swallowed, forcing his mind back to the moment at hand.

"Bleeding?" he asked.

Shawn let his hand fall. "Don't think so. Man. I hope that doesn't interfere with my helmet."

"Helmet?" Dean asked as he gently pushed Shawn's head towards his knees so he could take a look himself.

"Yeah. I mean, I can go without of course, but I'd rather not. Dumb motorcyclists are also dead ones."

"Ah. So the Norton out there is yours?"

Shawn smiled. "Yeah. My baby. My freedom. Spent my college fund on it. Pissed my dad off to no end. But I'm not really a college kind of guy. And besides, when high school ended . . ." He shrugged. "Staying at home wasn't very appealing. So I bought a bike and hit the road."

Dean couldn't totally sympathize with that on a personal level but, well, he kind of could. He got the need to roam. That made perfect sense to him. And he sort of understood the need to escape. Sort of.

He at least had some experience with the rebellious teenager wanting to get out from under Dad's rule and making a decision based at least partially on how much it would piss off Dad, even if he hadn't fell that way personally.

"It's a nice bike," he said when he realized the silence had stretched. "Gotta get some ice. Be right back," he said and ducked out of the room.

He took a deep breath and then shook his head and rolled his shoulders.

And then he went in search of the ice machine and wondered what Sam would think of Shawn.

Dean snorted. Probably both love him and hate him.

They could commiserate about overbearing fathers who tried to control their lives, but the college thing would definitely be something they would have to agree to disagree about.

Dean returned to the room, bucket in hand, but was surprised to find it empty.

Until the toilet flushed and water ran and he realized the door to the bathroom was closed.

It opened and Shawn stepped out.

"Sorry. I've had to pee since before that thing attacked."

Dean waved it off. "No problem. Who am I to deny a man the right to pee?"

Shawn chuckled and accepted the bag of ice Dean offered, putting it to the lump on his head and sighing as the cool ice began to soothe the bump.

"Well," he said, sticking his free hand in his pocket. "I appreciate the, uh, help and all. But it's late and I should probably be going."

"Sit down."

Shawn's eyebrows went up instead. "Sorry?"

"You have a mild concussion, Shawn," Dean explained. "I'm not letting you go back to your room so you can get an aneurysm and die in your sleep or something. Sit. I don't need both beds."

"Um, really, that's okay I-"

"Sit. Now."

Shawn sat like his knees had been cut through.

Dean felt a little bad about using the Marine Voice he learned from his dad, but, well, he meant what he'd said. He didn't save Shawn's ass just to let him die—and no he didn't care who fired the damn bullet, Shawn would have been puppy chow if he hadn't been there.

"You can lay down and even go to sleep if you want, but expect a wake up call in a few hours."

Shawn sank back, but didn't immediately drift off.

Especially when he heard the soft curse from the other bed.

He opened his eyes to see Dean curled over, peering at his own leg where a rip in the jeans exposed a jagged slash in his thigh.

Dean looked up to find the first aid kit and saw Shawn looking at him. "Fucker swiped me with his claw," he said easily, then pointed to the first aid kit on the bed by Shawn. "Can you hand me one of the suture kits and the bottle of water?"

"Shouldn't you go to the hospital?"

Dean shook his head. "Little thing like this? Nah. Not worth the insurance card."

Shawn hesitated, but at the Look from Dean dug into the large kit and pulled out a smaller package labeled 'sutures' and a bottle of water marked HH2O. He smiled at the mislabeling.

"What's so giggleworthy over there, Moe?"

Shawn held up the bottle and grinned.

Dean stared blankly. "Yeah?" he said and reached for it.

"Uh, water is 'H2O'? Not 'HH2O'?"

Dean smirked. "Well this isn't just water, smartass."

"Extra hydrogen makes it extra healthy?" Shawn snickered.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Actually it's Holy Water. Thus HH2O."

"Oh. Oka-" Shawn blinked. "Wait. What?"

Dean was pouring the water over his leg though and wincing and missed the question.

It didn't bubble up or steam and he really hadn't expected it to, but one could never be too sure with fuglies.

"Peroxide."

Shawn frowned, but dug in and found the bottle, wincing in sympathy as Dean cursed and hissed at that dousing.

Once it stopped bubbling he patted it dry and then opened the suture kit, hands working with familiar ease as he prepped the needle.

"Dude, you're not seriously going to give yourself stitches."

Dean glanced up, then refocused on the wound. "Well it ain't gonna stitch itself," he said.

"But . . ."

Dean sighed and lowered the hand with the needle. "Do you know how to do stitches?"

Shawn's eyes widened. "No! That's what doctors are for, dumbass!"

"Yeah well doctors are idiots who ask too many damn questions and charge too much damn money. So if you have nothing constructive to offer—like, say, the ability to stitch my damn leg up—then shut the hell up and let me do it."

Shawn shut up and let him work, offering no further criticism. Though he did watch the whole time because, frankly, it was fascinating and not a little impressive.

Dean tied off the last stitch and clipped the thread, then replaced the needle and shut the case. He set it on the nightstand, grabbed the bottle of painkillers he'd already dosed Shawn from, and downed the pills, chasing it with a gulp of holy water. Mostly because it was at hand and not because he suspected any further trouble from the wound.

He took a mental inventory but could come up with no further injuries beyond bruises and other things that could only be tended to with time so he let himself sink back onto the bed, eyes drifting shut.

"Take a picture. Lasts longer."

Shawn blinked. "Dude, you just stitched up your own leg."

"Yep."

"That's . . ."

"Impressive as hell and all in a day's work. Now you might want to go to sleep because the clock is already ticking on your wakeup call in two hours."

And with that Dean apparently took his own advice and dropped off to sleep.

Shawn goggled and stared for a few more seconds before laying back on the bed.

He wasn't sure he'd be sleeping, but he could think in the dark as well as the light so out of consideration for Dean he flipped off the light between the beds.

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

Review, please and thanks.


	4. The Follow Through

I hope everyone has enjoyed the humor--and no it's not completely over with--but this chapter does get a little less giggly and a little more emo as Dean would say.

And no, I won't bother to tell you who started it because I think they're both to blame and if you look over there to where the boys are they're pointing at each other and emphatically mouthing, "HIM! HIM!"

So yeah. Couple more laughs, but a nice little dose of angst too. Whee!

Thus I present: the final chapter in this story of the fateful meeting between Psychic and Hunter. Huzzah!

Oh and, you'll want to get drool buckets handy because there be sleepy, rumpled boys ahead. :D

* * *

Dean kept his word and woke Shawn every two hours exactly, asked him a couple of questions—though not the usual post concussion questions, because, frankly, Dean would have no way of knowing the right answers—and then let him drift back off.

It was easier every time and the last time he didn't even wait for Dean to shake his shoulder.

He blinked and realized the sun was peeking through the windows and Dean was still laying in the other bed, chest rising and falling regularly.

Was it morning already? Guh.

Shawn sighed and stared at the ceiling, but a ginger probing of his head and mental assay of the rest of him revealed that he was well on the road to recovery. After he had some more painkillers anyway.

He fished a couple out of the bottle, shuffled to the bathroom to get some water and answer nature's call and then came back to find Dean sitting up, scratching sleepily at his head, and blinking owlishly in the morning light.

"Morning," Shawn mumbled.

Dean leveled a glare his way and grumbled something.

So not a morning person then.

But a couple of cups of coffee from the room's carafe later he was much more sociable.

And after he showered he was downright chipper.

Well, by Shawn's estimation.

But Shawn wasn't really human until after ten no matter what he did or ingested.

Dean ventured out into the world for food while Shawn shuffled back to his room and showered and changed.

Afterward he packed up his stuff and thought about checking out and heading out, but, well, he was a curious kind of guy. And Dean Winchester said and did things that poked Shawn's curiosity. Things that could drop a cat at fifty paces.

So when he saw the black muscle car was parked in the spot in front of room eleven he only thought for a half a second before knocking on the door.

Dean answered with a smirk. "Thought you might come back. You like burgers?"

Shawn nodded, face flushing when his stomach added a resounding "YES!" of a growl.

Dean just chuckled and stepped back.

"What would you have done if I didn't come back?" Shawn asked, curiosity bubbling over in the form of the first of many questions.

Dean shrugged. "Eaten it? I'm not normally a fan of anything but a classic cow on a bun, but this Hawaiian thing they have at the diner is pretty good."

Shawn's ears perked up at that as he reached for his burger and began unwrapping. Hawaiian, when added as a tag to food, usually meant one thing . . . Oh sweet Pele.

"It has pineapple," Shawn breathed.

Dean nodded and took a second mouth-filling bite of his own burger. "It does indeed," he added, not bothering to hide the partially chewed food. Dean was pretty sure that, unlike Sam, Shawn wouldn't care. Also, he didn't make exceptions for Sam, so why would he for Shawn? He only used his manners when a case warranted it or a hot girl was present. Otherwise it was a waste of effort.

Actually, Shawn took no notice whatsoever of Dean's manners or lack thereof. He was too engrossed in contemplating the wonder that was a burger with a pineapple slice on it.

"Dude, if you were a girl I'd be seriously considering proposing marriage."

Dean stopped chewing. "E'scuse me?" he said, garbled as it was by the mouthful of food.

Shawn looked up and Dean leaned back slightly. The look of joy on Shawn's face was downright freaking him out.

"Pineapple, dude!" Shawn said, like that explained everything.

Dean finished his bite and swallowed. "Okay," he said, taking a drink from the Coke he'd gotten to accompany his burger. "I'm just glad I'm not a girl then."

The conversation pretty much died after that as the two of them devoured their burgers, though it picked up again when they were left with just fries and drinks.

It started with what Shawn was doing on the road but, as Dean expected, it turned to how he knew what the werewolf was and why he'd been there when it attacked.

Dean gave the short version of what he did for a living, though he did tell the truth. It might have had some gaps in it, but everything he said was true.

And Shawn had accepted it with much more gusto than most people who survived an attack by the supernatural. Until of course, he managed to weasel stories of other things Dean had hunted out of him while Dean opened the weapons' bag and started the post-hunt maintenance of his arsenal.

"Wait, you hunt ghosts?" Shawn said. He said it in a serious tone, but the way his lips kept twitching betrayed his amusement and incredulity.

Dean just picked up his sawed-off and selected the proper brush as he arched an eyebrow. "You got a problem with that?"

Shawn shook his head. "No. Not at all. I just . . ." He shrugged. "Ghosts? Really?"

Dean's first impulse was annoyance, especially since Shawn had so easily accepted the rest of it, but he knew everyone, even hunters, had their sticking point, the one thing they just really could not accept was actually out there even when they knew all the other things that were. His had been fairies. Until that fateful summer when he was sixteen . . . But that was a story he wouldn't share with Sam, let alone someone he was not related to who wasn't a hunter.

The other reason he was more lenient than normal was that Shawn had managed to out-hustle him. They'd tied on charming the ladies—or both had failed miserably to find a playmate for the night, but in Dean's book that was still a tie because both had gone home lonely. Well, of female companionship.

Anyway, if Shawn had also been able to out-drink him there would have been hate for the guy.

Shawn also had a Norton Commando. And while Dean was mostly a car kind of guy, he could appreciate the smooth lines of a bike like that. And Shawn talked with the same reverence and showed it the same love Dean showed his baby so it wasn't just a showpiece. The guy knew something about engines obviously. Unlike Sam, who couldn't tell a socket wrench from a screwdriver.

He really needed to stop thinking about Sam.

Right. So Dean was pretty sure that if he'd had a normal childhood and grown up in Santa Barbara, California, he and Shawn would have been pretty good friends.

Not to mention that, despite the fact that he was questioning the existence of ghosts right now, he'd held his own against the werewolf last night. Even more impressive since he'd been drunk as a sailor on shore leave.

So yeah, Shawn Spencer was a pretty decent guy in Dean's book. Even if he did have a really girly scream.

None of this stopped Dean from his response to Shawn's disbelief though. Pretty much the same one that every hunter used in this situation. "You helped kill and roast a werewolf last night. Why can't there be ghosts?"

Shawn opened his mouth to protest, but shut it again after a moment of silence. He tried once more, then nodded. "Touché."

Dean smirked and reassembled the shotgun he'd finished cleaning.

"So now what?" Shawn asked, finishing his fries with a last ketchup smothering dip and stuffing the whole handful in his mouth.

Dean shrugged one shoulder and sighted down the barrel of his handgun to see how dirty it was. Not much, but then he kept his guns in good condition. And easy habit to form when one learned weapons maintenance from a Marine.

"Now I go find some other fugly to kill."

Shawn nodded, considered that. "So this is like your . . . job?"

Dean tilted his head, the brush moving in a rhythm so steady you'd never know he wasn't paying that much attention.

"Well, I don't get paid. And the health benefits suck." Shawn snorted, recalling how he'd watch Dean stitch his own leg closed last night. And the mild concussion that still had his own eyes losing focus every now and again.

"Yeah. No kidding."

"But I get to play with guns," Dean said with a grin and a waggle of his eyebrows. "And I don't have to wear a uniform."

Oh now _that_ was a selling point if Shawn had ever heard one.

"I get to set my own schedule. I travel the country. I meet lots of very fine young women." Shawn tipped his drink cup in Dean's direction. Oh yes. Another excellent point.

Dean shrugged. "I don't have to answer to some moron that knows even less about what's going on than I do. And I get to help people. What's not to love about a job like this? Seriously, where else can you find half of that?"

Shawn said nothing while Dean checked the barrel once more and then began reassembling the weapon.

"How does one get into the hunting business?"

Dean slowed, glancing up at Shawn.

"One doesn't."

Shawn's eyebrows rose. "I'm sorry?"

Dean finished the process with a snap of the slide, then set the gun aside, picking up his Bowie and his sharpening kit.

"No, I'm serious," Shawn said, not the least put off by the fact that he was poking at a guy who was currently wielding with great familiarity a Bowie knife as long as Shawn's forearm. But then, Dean hadn't killed him yet so he probably wasn't planning to. And if he was, well, it was unlikely, based on what he'd seen and heard, that Shawn would be able to save himself. So he might as well ask his questions.

"I know you are," Dean replied calmly. "And so am I."

"What? There's no openings in the company? You expect me to buy that?"

Dean sighed, but didn't stop the gentle back and forth motions of blade across whetstone.

"Okay, yeah, I'm not quite sure I buy the ghost thing, but, hey, I'm willing to let myself be persuaded. And it's not like I'm completely helpless. I mean, last night. Need I say more?" he asked.

Dean laughed, but just said, "Look, Shawn, it's not you."

Shawn snorted.

"No, really, it's not." Dean's brow furrowed. "I mean, it kind of is, but . . ."

A single eyebrow arched. "Is it or isn't it?"

Dean shot him a glare, but Shawn was half smiling so Dean didn't do more than grumble a soft, "Smartass."

He took a moment to eyeball the edge on the blade, then added more oil and kept going. "It's not that I think you lack the necessary intelligence or skill set to do the job."

Shawn opened his mouth, but Dean kept going. "Well, okay, _some_ of the necessary skill set, maybe. Unless you can recite the _Rituale Romanum_?"

"The who with the what now?" Shawn asked.

"It's an exorcism."

"As in . . ." A hand was waved.

"Yeah. As in exorcising demons. Anyway, I'm sure even what you don't know you could learn easily. You're obviously a pretty smart guy."

Shawn shifted in his seat. "And also a very straight guy."

Dean snorted.

"Just making sure we had that out there and there was no confusion," Shawn said.

"Dude, I am so not hitting on you. I thought we established last night that I like my sleepover buddies with all the same things you like—and nothing you have."

"Hey," Shawn said, raising his hands, "I'm just making sure. You're the one rolling out all the compliments. You're smart and funny and I love your bike . . ."

Dean laughed. "Shut up, Bitch."

"I though we just established that last night we established I'm no one's bitch."

Dean glanced up, his eyes flickering with something when he looked at Shawn that bore a close resemblance to surprise and then pain, but it was gone and his eyes went back to the knife, all clinical judge again.

Interesting. But not the topic Shawn currently wanted to pursue.

"Anyway, like I was saying. You might be able to physically do the job, but . . ." He shrugged and wiped the knife clean, sheathing it and turning to face Shawn squarely. "You want to know how to get into the business?"

Shawn leaned forward. "Hell yes."

"I lost my mother when I was four years old."

Shawn blinked and jerked back. "I . . . I'm sorry."

"Yeah. Me too." A blink of more pain and sorrow, then it was gone again.

"My dad lost his wife."

He added look that said, _Obviously_.

Shawn nodded.

"Know a guy named Joshua. He's something of an expert on witches. He lost his wife and two girls to a witch's curse."

Shawn was beginning to regret eating that last handful of fries.

"Caleb, he lost his parents and twin brother to a werewolf."

Shawn set down the cup, pushing it away.

"You seeing the pattern here?"

Shawn nodded, his enthusiasm seemingly thoroughly squashed.

Then he frowned.

"So you have to lose a family member to get in?" Shawn didn't know if even that would be enough for him to keep going, but then he thought about Gus facing down that werewolf last night without Dean or someone else there to save him. And suddenly he thought maybe he could understand.

Dean gave him a stern look.

"Shawn."

Shawn looked up. "What?"

"It takes a certain kind of person. Someone who doesn't really have anything to lose. Who is willing to fight a thankless fight, give up everything they have, any hope of being normal, and live on the outskirts of society to probably end up dead in the woods someday where their body will most likely never be found, let alone identified or claimed.

"You have to beg, borrow, and steal everything you have. You live off credit card fraud and hustling pool and poker because you can't get a nine-to-five job. Any hope of a lasting relationship beyond a one-night-stand has to be shelved indefinitely—and most likely forever. It's lonely and it's hard and some days it's not fucking worth it."

Shawn arched an eyebrow and leaned back. "I don't believe that."

Dean stared at him for a few long seconds, then sighed and slumped a little, reaching for his weapons bag to start packing things back up. "Whatever, man. Go get a gun and some rock salt and try your hand at demon hunting. But don't come crying to me when you get yourself killed by some poltergeist in the middle of nowhere."

He stopped and pointed at Shawn.

"And don't you dare tell people that I got you into this. I have a reputation to uphold."

Shawn frowned. "No, I mean I don't believe that it's not worth it."

Now it was Dean's turn to arch an eyebrow, though he didn't stop packing.

"Obviously it's worth it or you wouldn't put up with all that stuff you just listed."

Dean's head bobbed back and forth. "Yeah, well, I'm not exactly the poster boy for mental health, you know?"

Shawn laughed. "Yeah, I, uh, kinda picked up on that."

Dean mock-glared. "Thanks," he said sarcastically. "I save your ass from becoming a werewolf chew toy and you're calling me crazy? Remind me to wait before I shoot so I can get you both with one bullet next time."

"Hey man, you started it," Shawn said lifting his hands to a position of surrender. "And I was talking about your pyromanic tendencies. That's not a healthy obsession, dude."

"Whatever. Fire is awesome. And I know how to burn things responsibly."

Shawn laughed. "Wow. My father would so not have let us be friends as kids."

Dean grinned. Yeah, he kind of had that effect on people.

"Anyway," Shawn continued, more serious now, "I get where you're coming from. And you're right, it's probably not for me. It sounds really exciting, but if last night was any indication of the kind of stuff you normally see then it's probably not my kind of job."

Dean snorted. He didn't want to hurt Shawn's pride, but last night had been a still rookie werewolf and one of the easiest hunts he'd ever been on. Shawn's interference included. Saying that was an indication of what hunting was like was like saying that playing a video game was an indication of what it was like to join the military and go to war.

"I just don't buy that crap about it not being worth it."

Dean didn't say anything to that. Because most days what he'd said was a lie. But some days . . . Well, some days it wasn't so much of a lie.

Dean finished stuffing his clothes in his bag. "Are you done with the chick flick moment?"

Shawn laughed softly. "Yeah, dude. And I would like to once again point out that you totally started it."

"Nuh uh. You asked the question. I just answered it."

"Yeah okay. Whatever."

Dean shrugged and slung the weapons duffel over a shoulder, his personal duffel in his hand.

Shawn recognized the cue for what it was and stood, tossing his cup in the trash.

"So, off to go kill more, uh," Shawn waved a hand, "whatevers?"

"Yup. Off to try more crazy-ass jobs wherever you can find them?"

"Yup."

They headed out and Dean stowed the duffels, then went back to where Shawn was standing on the sidewalk in front of his own room, situating his backpack comfortably on his shoulders.

"Thanks for the help," Dean said, holding out a hand.

"Thanks for saving my ass," Shawn replied with a smirk as he shook the hand.

Dean chuckled. "Next full moon try staying indoors. And away from parks."

"Try opening your eyes when you aim," Shawn shot back wryly. "It tends to increase your accuracy."

"I will try to remember that, Rawhide," Dean drawled.

"Oh hey, here." Shawn pulled out his wallet and peeled several twenties out of the stack of last night's winnings.

"Nah, that's okay," Dean said.

"Seriously, dude, take it," Shawn said, holding it out and waving it slightly. "You saved my ass last night and you put up with my questions this morning. It's the least I can do. Besides, you play one hell of a pool game and I'd bet your car, beauty that she is, guzzles gas like there's no tomorrow."

Dean gave Shawn another considering look, then accepted the money. "Thanks."

He climbed in his car, revving the engine and smiling at the familiar growl as Shawn straddled his bike and reached for his helmet. Then Dean rolled down the window.

"Hey, Shawn."

"Yeah?"

"Santa Barbara far from Palo Alto?"

Shawn frowned. "About five hours, why?"

Dean considered, then shook his head. "Just curious. See ya 'round, man."

"Yeah, see ya."

The classic black beauty was backed up and then pulled out of the lot and onto the road.

Shawn watched it go and wondered about the man inside.

Then he shrugged and secured his helmet. You met the strangest—and quite possibly _awesomest_—people on the road.

* * *

Well that's it. The end of this particular tale. But lucky for you I already have more in this 'verse. YAYZ! :D

Hope you enjoyed it! Review, please and thanks!


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